


Hung Jury

by noodle_kugel



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types, Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Jury Duty, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-13
Updated: 2019-05-15
Packaged: 2020-01-12 19:35:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18453212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noodle_kugel/pseuds/noodle_kugel
Summary: Elio, a music grad student in his late 20's, and Oliver, a philosophy professor in his early 30's, are both begrudgingly selected for jury duty for six weeks during the summer. They immediately detest each other, but what starts as mutual enmity slowly blossoms into friendship and possibly much more.





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ashleymoshow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ashleymoshow/gifts).



_**New York County Juror Summons** _

Please report on Monday, June 3, 2019 8:45 AM to the "Grand Jury Selection Room" located at 100 Centre Street in Manhattan. Bring summons with completed part (H). Note: Call 212-555-5555 after 5:30PM the night or weekend before reporting date. Deadline for excuses is Tuesday, May 28, 2019. Term up to 30 business days if picked.

* * *

The security line to enter the Lower Manhattan Supreme Courthouse was three blocks long. Elio had heard that the lines were bad, and he'd given himself a half hour, but he didn't realize it was JFK Airport TSA line on the day before Christmas bad. After twenty minutes, he'd finally gotten into the courthouse lobby, only to find the line winds back and forth. He'd be here for at least another half hour. What a great way to start his Monday morning.

Everyone in this line was annoying him - they were sipping coffee too loud, they were listening to music without headphones, children were screaming bloody murder (hopefully they weren't here to testify about a murder...), but in particular, he noticed a very tall man near the front of the line. His hair was slicked, he was wearing a suit and carrying a briefcase. He towered over everyone, including the armed security guards. Must be a lawyer here for court, with the way he was dressed. Elio was immediately frustrated by the cocky way the lawyer took off his suit jacket and spoke to the guards in such a friendly way. Why was he so chipper this early on a Monday? He must be an evil lawyer, excited to lock up another non-violent drug offender.

When Elio finally got through security, he was told to go to the sixth floor. He was already twenty minutes late, and the line for the elevator was too long. By the third floor, he'd regretted his decision to take the stairs, but he had already committed. When he walked into the grand jury selection room, he was sweaty and panting, not used to this much exercise this early in the day. Or ever.

The room was crowded, so he begrudgingly took a seat in the first row, and took out a book from his backpack.

* * *

"I have fucking grand jury duty," Oliver said on the phone as he walked to the courthouse from the subway.

"What does that mean? That it's a bigger trial?" his mother asked.

Oliver stopped at a food cart to pick up a coffee and continued his conversation with his mother. "No, I think it means you decide if a case has enough evidence to go to trial. I'm basically screwed. I was going to spend my summer doing research but instead I'm going to spend it in court. It's going to be a total waste of my time."

"Don't say that, sweetheart. It'll be an interesting look at the justice system, maybe you'll help save someone who's innocent."

Oliver laughed. "Unlikely. Have you heard the saying that a grand jury would indict a ham sandwich? That's what I'm in for."

"Will we see you for Father's Day next weekend? Is Sasha coming with you?"

He stepped in a puddle, and started shaking his foot to get the remnants of this mystery liquid off of his oxfords. "Mom, I told you, we broke up a few weeks ago."

"Oh, right, I'm sorry, I forgot. Well, will you be here? Your sister is bringing Aria, and you know how much your niece loves you."

Oliver arrived at the courthouse and got in the long security line. His lawyer friends told him to dress professionally, and that might help get him out of jury service, but it was way too warm outside to be in a suit and tie. Thankfully, he soon made it into the air conditioned lobby, only to wait on yet another line. This was going to be two months of torture if he was selected.

When he finally made it to security, he smiled at the guards and made polite small talk as he took off his suit jacket and threw his briefcase onto the table to be scanned.

He took a seat in the first row, eager to speak with an attorney or a guard to sweet talk his way out of jury duty. He couldn't lose an entire summer's worth of work. Oliver was sorely disappointed when he was told that the only way out of serving was if he was the primary caretaker of a minor or if he didn't speak English. He could defer his service, but he'd rather not miss teaching classes during the semester.

He took out his iPad to read the newspaper, and grew increasingly frustrated when it wouldn't connect to the wifi. How was he supposed to get his work done if he couldn't access the internet?

A disheveled, sweaty twenty something with messy curly hair came barrelling into the room and took a seat in his row. This man was wearing a t-shirt and jeans that were hanging off of hips. Hadn't he ever heard of a belt? The man took a book out of his bag and began to read. He was breathing heavily and wiped sweat from his brow. "Do you want some water?" Oliver asked, taking his metal water bottle from his briefcase. He gave Oliver a scowl, and went back to his book. So much for being nice.

* * *

It took the wardens an hour and a half to read the names of everyone in the room. There were literally hundreds of them, and it felt like a cattle call. Their numbers were halved after they asked if anyone didn't speak English, or if anyone was not a resident of New York. Elio considered playing the "I don't speak English" card like half of the room, given his fluency in both Italian and French, but he didn't want to risk the potential jail time. Also, how did so many people know they were asking who didn't speak English if they exclusively asked the question in English?

Everyone's juror selection cards were placed in a large bingo ball contraption, and one by one, names were called as people were assigned to juries. "Elio Perlman." FUCK. Once your name was called, that was it, you were stuck on a grand jury. No interviews, no negotiating, no pretending your grandfather was murdered by a rapist cop.

The jurors were given slips of paper with a room number and were told to come back after lunch and report to their respective jury rooms. This time around, Elio decided to take the elevator. He'd learned his lesson the hard way. The tall man, who apparently had jury duty and was not here to go to court, walked into the elevator after him and backed up, stepping on Elio's toes. "Watch it!" Elio shouted. He was grumpy, and every little thing was going to bother him today.

"Sorry," the giant said. "It's sometimes hard not to step on something with these clown feet." Ugh, even when he was trying to be self depricating, he wasn't funny.

Elio took a walk and went to go get soup dumplings in Chinatown before heading back to jury duty. He stood at the counter of Deluxe Green Bo, waiting for his dumplings, when in walked the asshole from jury duty. Elio put his head down and pretended to be very interested in what was on his phone. They made brief eye contact, and he ignored Elio, too. What a jerk! At least he'd only have to deal with him in the hallways and elevator, they chose six different juries today, and they probably weren't put on the same jury.

* * *

Oliver paced around Chinatown, slowly eating his dumplings, not eager to get back to the courthouse. He was stuck on a jury, and was not too thrilled about spending his summer in a court room. Then there was that guy, the sweaty kid with the messy curly hair. He was rude to him in the waiting area, yelled at him in the elevator, and now, he was pretending to ignore him at the dumpling shop? These were the types of people he was going to be dealing with all summer, and he was not looking forward to it.

He went through security again and headed to his assigned room. There were 22 other people assigned to his jury, and the room was as diverse as he was expecting. Oliver sat in the first row again, between an old Dominican woman and a middle-aged Sikh in a turban.

A warden came into the room and assigned each person a seat by their juror number. Oliver was juror number seven, so he took his seat when called. He then looked to his left. Juror number eight was the man from the elevator and the dumpling shop. Just perfect.

"Ugh, of course," Juror Eight mumbled.

"Get comfortable in your seat, because this is where you'll be sitting for the next six weeks," the warden said. Wonderful. He explained the procedures for grand jury duty, and answered every question with a surprising amount of patience. Oliver had several questions about the nuances of court procedure, and what they were and were not allowed to ask or say. If he was stuck here, he'd might as well try.

They began to hear several cases the first day, and Oliver dreaded coming back each of the next 29 days.

* * *

"So how bad was it?" Elio's roommate Marzia asked him.

"It's horrible. And to top it all off, the guy I have to sit next to is the most smug, condescending asshole I've ever seen. He was wearing a suit and tie to jury duty, and actually read the information packet and asked the warden questions about it." Elio took a big gulp of his red wine. It was a Monday evening, but he deserved it.

"Is he cute?" Marzia inquired. "Or is he old? Fat?"

"No, I'd say he's like in his early 30s? He wasn't bad looking, but I can't stand him. I have to spend six long weeks sitting next to him, listening to his endless questions. I wish it was over already."

Marzia grabbed a spatula and flipped the fish she was grilling for the two of them. They had been friends since college, and often cooked together. "Just try to ignore him, then. It'll be over before you know, and then you won't have to serve on a jury for like ten years."

"I guess. Who wears a suit to jury duty? I hate suit and tie people," Elio groaned.

"You're going to be a suit and tie person soon, too," she pointed out.

Elio shook his head and poured himself some more wine, topping off Marzia's glass. "I'll be more of a coat and tails person, actually, if I manage to become a concert pianist. I still have another year of grad school left, first." He was getting a masters in music, and was angry that he had to spend his summer break in jury duty instead of visiting his family in Italy.

Marzia clinked her wine glass to Elio's and said, "To one day watching you perform a sold out show at Carnegie Hall."

* * *

The next few days of jury duty limped along. Boring case after boring case, monotonous lawyer after monotonous lawyer. Oliver tried to make lemonade out of the lemons he was handed, but everything was starting to feel pointless. He brought the books he was assigning his freshmen next semester, and sat and annotated in the margins, typing up his notes during extended breaks.

Juror Eight occasionally looked over at Oliver's computer and rolled his eyes. Whenever they did not have a case, Eight always had his AirPods in his ears and a book in his hands. He was too good to join in the other jurors’ mindless conversations. The first two days of jury duty, he’d been reading _Heart of Darkness_ , but now he was carrying a heavier tome. Oliver tried to sneak a peak at the cover, and realized juror eight was reading _Infinite Jest_. Oliver was a philosophy professor, and even he couldn’t get into that. He supposed hours locked in a room with nothing to do was the correct time to read that book, but it was still incredibly pretentious of him.

On Friday, before their lunch break, Juror Eight was about to put on music when the elderly lady to his other side asked what he was listening to. Eight looked up from his phone and said, “Oh, Prokofiev’s _War Sonatas_.” Oliver couldn’t control himself and he chuckled under his breath. “Do you have a problem with that?” Eight asked.

“You’re listening to classical music during jury duty?” Oliver remarked.

Eight pointed his finger at Oliver, and said, “First of all, Prokofiev’s a modernist composer, not classical. Second, you spend your down time working on case briefs or whatever, so people in glass houses…”

“Case briefs? What are you talking about? I’m not a lawyer.”

“You certainly act and dress like one,” Eight scoffed. “A suit and briefcase on day one? Khakis and button-down shirts? We’re jurors, we don’t have to dress up.”

“This is how I dress,” Oliver said. “I’m a professional, not a slob.” He grabbed his things, headed to the elevator, and angrily stomped to a Halal cart to grab a chicken and rice platter to eat in the park during their break. After lunch, he asked the warden if there was any way jurors could switch seats, but the warden said he was stuck. He wasn’t sure he was going to survive the next five weeks next to this pain in the ass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is going to be 3 chapters (I think). Just a palette cleanser while I work on my other fics (I promise those will both get updates this week!). I hope you all enjoy it!
> 
> Story is dedicated to ashleymoshow because she kept me entertained while I was stuck on jury duty.


	2. Part II

The second week of jury duty began much the same as the first - humid weather, long security lines, aggravated jurors. It wasn’t even summer yet, and the heat was sweltering. Elio noticed that Juror Seven had given up on his button-down wardrobe, and had shown up to court today in a bright blue t-shirt, khaki shorts and sunglasses. He was annoyed at how much the color of his shirt brought out the color of his eyes - why were the worst people also blessed with good recessive genes?

“Getting ready for the beach?” Elio asked.

“What?” Juror Seven replied, picking his head up from his laptop. “Oh, it was just too warm today to wear long sleeves.” He scratched his neck, and a necklace with a Star of David charm that was tucked away under his shirt was visible. Given that this was Manhattan, he should not have been surprised that Seven was Jewish, but he was gargantuan, with blonde hair and blue eyes. Elio would have placed all of his money on New England boarding school WASP. He reminded Elio of many of his classmates at Yale.

In the afternoon, Elio went to the vending machine to get a bag of pretzels. The machine kept taking his dollar and spitting it back out. “Come on!” Elio yelled, kicking the machine fruitlessly.

“Taking your anger out on an inanimate object is not going to magically make it take your money,” Seven said, standing directly behind him.

“I shouldn’t have been trying to buy a snack anyway, I was just eating out of sheer boredom,” Elio said. Seven took the dollar from Elio’s hand. “Hey!” Elio shouted.

Seven gingerly held the edge of the dollar and rubbed it against the corner of vending machine. “Try it now,” he offered.

Elio violently grabbed the dollar back and fed it to the machine. “Thanks,” he mumbled, walking away with his bag of pretzels and his snacks. “Stupid, smug jerk,” he said to himself, when he thought Seven could no longer hear him.

During a witness testimony for yet another bail-jumping case, Elio took note at how attentively Seven was paying attention. This case was incredibly straightforward and boring. The person was supposed to show up to court, and didn’t. The courtroom cop testified that the individual did not appear in court. Could not be more cut and dry than that. Elio couldn’t understand why they even bothered to bring this type of case to a grand jury, but here they were, their fourth case of this type in six days. Seven had a pen in his hands, and was taking diligent notes, like a teacher’s pet. In fact, there was no way that Seven was not a teacher’s pet when he was in high school.

* * *

Though Oliver was attempting to get work done during breaks between cases and evidence presentations, many of the other jurors liked to talk, and he would join in their conversations. Today, it was a debate about which Marvel Superhero was the best. Most of the women on the panel were in agreement that their favorite was Captain Marvel.

“That’s an easy answer. It’s Captain America,” Oliver said. Juror Eight rolled his eyes, yet again. “I take it you think my personal opinion is incorrect?”

Juror Eight laughed snarkily. “That’s a cop-out answer. There are so many better characters than Captain America!”

“What’s wrong with him? He’s a leader, he constantly has internal struggles with morality and doing what’s right, and has to decide between helping himself or helping others. He’s got interesting conflicts. Plus, his first movie was a really fun war movie,” Oliver said, feeling defensive about his choice.

“That’s so boring. Let me guess, your favorite flavor of ice cream is vanilla?”

“Mint chocolate chip, actually. Why, who’s your favorite Marvel character?”

Eight scratched his head, running his finger through his mess of curls. “I assume I’m not allowed to say Miles Morales if we're sticking with the Marvel CMU, so probably Shuri. She doesn’t need any superpowers or a secret identity because she’s smart as hell, and even as a teenager, she can fend for herself.”

Oliver sat and thought about it for a minute. “I mean, that’s not a bad choice, but Captain America is still better.”

* * *

The days were still creeping by, and jury duty was not getting any more interesting, or any better. On Wednesday, when the first district attorney walked in the room, Juror Seven perked up.

“Chad?” Seven said, standing up and leaning against the wall of the juror box. “I didn’t know you worked here!” Of course this preppy attorney, with his slicked hair and three piece suit, was named Chad.

“Hey, Buddy! It’s been a while!” the DA said.

Seven smiled and gave the DA a one armed bro hug. “When did I last see you, at Wilder and Bitsy’s wedding? What was that, six years ago?” Wilder and Bitsy? He was definitely of boarding school stock. Elio tried his hardest to not laugh out loud, and instead, pretended to bury his nose in _Infinite Jest._

“Yeah, dude, it’s been a while. Sucks that you’re stuck with grand jury duty. Want to grab a drink after court one day this week and catch up?”

“That sounds great!” He took his phone out of his pocket and scrolled through the contacts. “Is this still your number?”

The DA grabbed his phone and took a look. “Yep! Text me later and we’ll plan something. Is Riley going to meet you?”

“Definitely not. We broke up like five years ago,” Seven said, laughing. “It’d be a bit hard to fly here from the literature department at Stanford.”

The court reporter walked into the room and to the typewriter. “I need to swear in the witness, so you’re going to need to sit out of this case,” Chad said. That’s not fair! Seven didn’t have to sit through the torture of another case and instead got to sit outside on his computer for the duration of the witness examination just because he knows the lawyer?

Seven grabbed his things and sauntered out of the room, waving goodbye to everyone in the process.

“I thought he had a nice ass, but look at his thighs in those shorts!” whispered a middle aged woman sitting behind him to the younger woman to her left. “If only I were fifteen years younger, and not married…” Seven wasn’t that good looking. Nothing to write home about. Sure, he was tall, and could pull off both scruff and being clean-shaven, but he’d met hotter guys. He’d dated and slept with hotter guys. He doubted these women were gossiping about his own looks behind his back, but he wouldn’t let their comments about Seven distract him from not paying attention to this next case.

* * *

During a late afternoon snack break, Oliver sat in the hallway drinking a coffee and highlighting in a book. Eight sat in another row of seats, FaceTiming on his phone. At first, Oliver thought he was speaking Spanish, but upon closer eavesdropping, it was Italian. Oliver had assumed Juror Eight was Jewish based on his looks, but Italian wasn’t too far off. Eight stood up and started pacing around, holding the phone out in front of his face. When he raised his arm, he exposed just the tiniest bit of his hip bone. He looked back at his book, as he didn’t want Eight to realize he was staring. Eight was always so unkempt and messy - if he just brushed his hair, or wore slimmer jeans, or just wore a belt, he could actually be handsome. Not that he was attracted to Eight at all. Just a random musing about a person he still had to sit next to for another four weeks.

Back in the courtroom, an assistant district attorney came in to tell them that they had to make sure that all cell phones and recording devices were turned off, and anyone caught with their devices on during the next witness testimony would be found in contempt of court. This sounded serious, and Oliver wondered if they were going to be hearing something about a violent crime or a murder. The warden came in and reiterated the instructions that everything they hear and see in the courtroom is to be kept confidential. He also explained that you could only be dismissed from a particular case if you personally knew a witness or if it was someone you might interact with in your daily life. He said, for example, if Derek Jeter walked in the room (a few jurors booed, must be Mets fans or transplanted Boston fans), that unless you worked or work for the Yankees or live in his building, even though he’s a name you recognize, that you do not personally know him, and you cannot be excused.

The jurors began tittering about what the next case could possibly be. The ADA came back, explained that they would be examining charges of burglary, robbery, forced entry, and related charges, and said that he would be introducing the witness, Jessica Esposito. A few people excitedly whispered, but Oliver had no idea who this person was, but he assumed it was a celebrity based on the excited yelp of the woman behind him.

Once the witness was sworn in, they began asking her questions. She had been performing a concert at Madison Square Garden, and after her show, several men had broken into her dressing room and robbed her at gunpoint, stealing all of her jewelry, her electronics, and some of her designer clothing. Oliver suddenly realized he’d read about this - she was the famous singer Miss Thing, but she usually wore a bright pink wig and loud makeup, so with her natural brown hair and a business suit, he didn’t immediately recognize her.

After the witness was dismissed, the jury chattered restlessly. “My daughter was at that concert!” one of the jurors in the second row said. “She said Miss Thing put on a great show. I feel really sorry for her.”

“This was actually kind of interesting,” Eight said. “I assumed most of the cases would be boring or cut and dry, so it’s exciting that we got to see a celebrity!”

Oliver had been shaken up by her story. They showed security camera footage of the perpetrators breaking into the backstage area and another of them holding her at gunpoint. She had to re-experience the event by watching the video with the jury so she could identify both herself and her assailants. “That wasn’t exciting, it was terrifying. That poor girl had to live through her most traumatic experience from four different angles.”

Eight was taken aback. “Yeah, I mean, it was scary for her, but it’s still exciting for us, it’s not every day you get to see a famous person in court and work on a case that will definitely get media attention.”

“Are you not at all fazed by all of the horrible crimes we’ve had to listen to each day? You just sit there, so cavalier about everything, as if we’re not sitting here eight hours a day listening to some truly terrible, life-altering things,” Oliver said angrily. He wasn’t sure why he was so upset, but he needed some air. He got up, before Eight could respond, and went to go splash some water in his face in the restroom. Why did he let this kid get him so riled up?

* * *

The next two days, Seven ignored Elio entirely. He didn’t even say something that bad, he just commented that it broke the humdrum of jury duty to have a famous face as a witness. Why did Seven react that aggressively? Why did Elio care? Seven was obnoxious, and so full of himself. Elio had wanted nothing to do with him since day one, why should it suddenly matter that he was being ignored? Elio frequently tried to ignore him, especially if they wound up at the same place for lunch, which has happened a few times now. Seven must read the same food blogs he reads.

After court on Friday, Elio went out for drinks with Marzia and some of their friends from Yale. Elio recounted the week’s events, making sure not to mention which celebrity had been in the courtroom.

“Elio, I think you like him,” Marzia pointed out bluntly.

“What? No I don’t. I told you, I despise him. He’s everything I can’t stand in a person,” Elio retorted.

Marzia smirked, “And yet, you have not stopped talking about him since you started jury duty. I think you like him.”

“Ugh! I definitely do not,” Elio said. “Sure, he’s classically handsome, and has chiseled features, and every female juror swoons when he walks in the room, but looks can’t compensate for personality.”

“They can if you just bang it out,” their friend Chiara suggested.

“Even if I wanted to bang him, which I most certainly do not, I’m pretty sure he’s straight. His ‘casual’ wardrobe seems to be mostly LL Bean and boat shoes.”

Marzia finished her glass of wine and said, “Maybe you should listen to him or give him a chance and not judge a book by its cover. You’ve still got a whole month stuck there.” Elio dismissed the idea. There was no way he was giving that guy a chance, he was obnoxious as hell.

* * *

Oliver took the train to his parents’ place on Long Island for Father’s Day. He helped his dad set up the grill, and they made burgers and hot dogs. The sun was beaming, and each member of his family was tinged with beads of sweat, but they were all thankful for the chance to be outside.

His sister, Meredith, sat on the grass with her three-year-old, Aria, as Aria refused to let her put sunscreen on. Oliver grabbed a tomato and brought it over to Aria. “You see this tomato?” Oliver said. “If you don’t let your mom put sunscreen on you, you’re going to turn into one! Or at least, turn red like one, and it’s going to hurt a lot.”

Aria let out a little yelp and shouted, “I don’t want to be a tomato! I like being a girl!”

“Then you should put on more sunscreen, and maybe wear a hat,” Oliver suggested. “Didn’t I see you wearing a pretty pink hat earlier? You looked beautiful in it!”

She nodded and said, “Okay, when Mommy is done, I’ll wear the hat, too. Thank you, Uncle Ollie.”

Once Aria was lotioned up, Meredith took a seat next to Oliver and her husband, Mike, at the table. “You’re really good with her, Ol. Did you ever think about having one of your own?”

He shrugged. “I assume it’s really hard for a single man to adopt a child on his own. Most of the guys I’ve dated haven’t wanted kids, anyway. I think I’d want to be married before I tried adopting a kid. Though I doubt it’s any easier for two men than it is for one.”

They chatted about Aria, and then Meredith asked, “Hey, do you think you can watch her at your place on Tuesday evening? We have _Kiss Me, Kate_ tickets, and I think she’d enjoy spending the evening with her uncle instead of with a sitter. Are you free?”

Oliver took out his phone and checked his calendar. “Yeah, I’m free on Tuesday night, I’d love to see her. You can either meet me at the courthouse at 4:30, or at my place around 5:15.”

“Your place is probably easier. That way, we can park by you and take the subway to dinner and the show.”

Aria ran over to the table and jumped into Oliver’s lap. “You’re going to be hanging out with me again on Tuesday! That’s only two days from now!”

His parents joined them at the table. “Speaking of court, how is jury duty? Is it as bad as you were expecting?” his father asked.

Oliver shrugged. “Most of it feels like a waste of time, but I think I’ve helped convince some of the jurors not to indict on lesser drug charges for some people when there’s less obvious evidence, so I think I’ve done some good. But then there’s the guy who sits next to me, I think he really enjoys intentionally doing things to anger me, and he gets on my nerves so much.”

“Oh, I’m sure he doesn’t mean it, you’re just cooped up in there so long that little things start to bother you,” his mother said.

“No, I think it’s intentional. I try to be nice to him, and he’s a total jerk. Everything about him makes me so irrationally angry,” Oliver added. He told his family some of the annoying things that Juror Eight does.

“Honey, it sounds to me like you might have a little crush on him, and he may have a crush on you. He’s playing schoolyard games, being mean to get your attention. Is he handsome?”

“I do NOT like him, Mom! He’s always disheveled, his hair is always messy, and his pants are two sizes too large and keep slipping off. But I think with some hair mousse or a belt for his pants, he wouldn’t be terrible looking. But I really do not like him. Not in a friendly way, and not in THAT way. He will not be my date to your Labor Day party, I can tell you this much.” Oliver would be eating his words, because two and a half months later, Juror Eight was indeed his date to his family’s Labor Day party.

* * *

The next few days were rough on the jury. On Monday, they were held in the courtroom until 7:30PM. This whole week, they kept introducing new cases, mostly of rapes and assaults. Elio hated to admit it, but Juror Seven was right, that this was draining on your spirit and was probably going to give him a lifetime of emotional scars - obviously not nearly to the extent of the survivors and witnesses, but some of the testimonies were truly horrible, and he’d never be able to forget them.

By Wednesday, the jurors were in low spirits. Each subsequent case was giving them less faith in humanity or in the justice system. Juror Nineteen, a guy in his late forties with two full sleeve tattoos who always wore ripped jeans, said that he owned a bar in Hell’s Kitchen, and after court today, everyone was more than welcome to come to the bar for some free food and drinks. Maybe if they all got drunk together, it would make the room feel less somber going forward.They weren’t sure if they were technically allowed to socialize after hours, but they deserved something after the grueling week they were having.

They all took the subway together, walking to the bar on 11th Avenue. It was a dingy, darkly lit hole in the wall that Elio had never been to and would have completely overlooked. They had a surprisingly good turn out - fourteen of the twenty-three jurors were there. Unfortunately, that included Juror Seven.

After pushing some tables together, Juror Nineteen brought over a few pitchers of beer, and motioned for the bartender to send over some food. Many pitchers of beer, shots, plates of nachos, burgers, rounds of darts and games of pool later, everyone seemed to be getting along. Elio noticed that the bar had a beaten up piano in the corner. “Does that thing work?” he asked Nineteen, who nodded. “Can I have a go at it?”

“Knock yourself out,” Nineteen said, with a mouth full of cheese fries. He noticed Seven raise his eyebrows, and Elio knew he was going to have to play something that would knock his socks off and prove that he was quite the talented pianist.

Elio sat down at the piano bench. The bartender shut off the music while he warmed up and stretched, and suddenly, all eyes were on him. He decided to play Beethoven’s _Moonlight Sonata_. He had fifteen minutes in him, and he’d practiced it so many times last year that he knew the entire thing by heart. As he played the opening movement, the somber Adagio sustenuto, a few jurors and others in the bar came closer to the piano, since the movement was quiet. Elio was annoyed that the damper pedal on the piano wasn’t working, but at least it was mostly in tune.

A few more people came to join him at the piano during the Allegretto movement. By the frenzied Presto agitato, the bar was silent, and everyone was watching and listening to him play. To Elio’s satisfaction, he spotted Seven, beer in hand, in rapt attention. At the end of the piece, everyone shouted and clapped for him. It was one of his finest performance, even if his fingers were a bit slower than usual thanks to the copious amount of alcohol he’d already consumed that evening.

“I guess that explains the classical music,” Seven said to Elio when he sat back down at the table.

“I’m studying to be a concert pianist,” Elio huffed. “At least my career choice will bring joy to others. I doubt your finance job really brings joy to anyone but the CEO of your company.”

Seven growled under his breath. “First I was a lawyer, now you think I work in finance? I work in academia.”

“Well, that explains the holier than thou attitude, then,” Elio said, grabbing a mozzarella stick and heading to the dart board. He decided he wouldn’t let Seven get under his skin - he was having a surprisingly fun night otherwise.

Soon, the jurors decided to start heading home - they did have to be in court at 9am. “Does anyone live on the Upper West Side and want to split a cab?” Juror Four, a petite middle-aged woman, asked.

“I do,” Elio said. Juror Seven said the same thing at the same time.

“Great, all three of us can get a cab! Where are you?” Four asked.

“105th and Broadway,” Elio said.

Seven said, “109th and Riverside.” Why did he have to live so close to him?

“I’m at 88th and Amsterdam. I think the cab can make a few stops,” she said. They went outside and hailed a cab, and Four sat in the front, offering to move the seat as forward as possible so Seven would have some legroom.

The cab driver said he could only make two stops, so Elio said, “I’ll walk from Riverside, you can make their stops, it’s fine.”

Seven whispered, “You don’t need to be a martyr.”

They both glared at each other angrily. This was going to be the longest two mile cab ride of their lives.

Once they let Four out at her stop, Elio took out his phone and pretended to be incredibly interested in his Instagram feed, in an effort to avoid talking to Seven.

Seven took out his credit card and paid for the ride before Elio had a chance to dig for his wallet. Great, now he’d have to owe something to Seven.

“You can pay me back tomorrow,” Seven said, furrowing his brow.

“Why are you always so mean to me? What did I do to you?” Elio snapped.

“ **I’ve** been mean to **you**? Since the day we started jury duty, you’ve been nothing but hostile toward me. You’re always scowling at me, whenever I say anything, you snicker or make a snide remark, and when I try to help you, like at the vending machine, or the first day when I offered you water, you were completely callous,” Seven said, taking a step toward him. Elio took a step backward, leaning against the wall of the apartment building.

Elio took offense to this. “I’m actually a really nice person. I’m only that way because you’ve been a pompous, pretentious asshole.”

“Pretentious, sure, it’s hard to come out of Harvard without some pretension, but I am not pompous,” Seven said. 

“Ah! That’s why you’re so unbearable! You went to Harvard! Fair Harvard does NOT hold sway over old Eli, I can tell you that much,” Elio said, making fierce eye contact with Seven.

“Wait… YOU went to Yale? Really?” Seven looked aghast.

Elio puffed out his chest and added, “What? Am I not smart enough to have gone to Yale?”

“No, you just don’t…” before he finished his sentence, Seven pressed Elio against the wall, and kissed him roughly. Elio wrapped his arms around Seven and dug his nails into his back, gripping as hard as he could. He thought about what Marzia had said - he certainly didn’t like Seven, but maybe she was right that he was attracted to him. Seven certainly seemed straight, but now he had a new challenge. In any case, Elio hadn’t been laid in a while, and Seven was actually a pretty proficient kisser.

“Let’s go up to your place,” Elio said, biting Seven’s lip.

They walked into the building, Seven waved at his doorman, and they waited for the elevator to his floor. In front of his door, Seven fumbled for his key, and once they were inside, Elio slammed the door and jumped into Seven’s arms, angrily kissing him once more. Seven led him through the apartment, where Elio tripped over a doll on the floor. He noticed a few children’s toys around, and a few framed pictures of Seven with a little girl, but no sign of a child. He must be a divorced parent. He recognized the little girl from a family picture on Seven’s lock screen, but there were several other adults in the picture, so there was no indication that the child was his until now.

Seven opened the door to his bedroom, and Elio followed him in. He looked around, and everything was immaculate and orderly. This did not surprise Elio in the least. In his own bedroom, everything was strewn about haphazardly, piles of dirty clothes and clean clothes and books upon books. When Seven sat at the edge of the bed, Elio immediately sat on his lap and kissed him hungrily. He tugged at Seven’s shirt, who then raised his arms above his head so Elio could pull the shirt off. Elio quickly shed his own shirt, and pressed his body to Seven’s. He ran his fingers along Seven’s hairy chest, and then over his loosely defined abdominal muscles. It wasn’t quite a six-pack, but Seven definitely worked out.

Elio felt Seven grow hard through his shorts, so he decided to release him and see what he was packing. He pushed Seven down on the bed, unbuckled his belt, and began unbuttoning his shorts. Soon, he pulled off his shorts and boxers in one go. “Oh, fuck,” Elio said, staring at Seven’s erection. _Well, I certainly see why he’s so cocky,_ Elio thought, and then laughed at his internal wordplay.

Seven sat up and threw Elio down on a pillow, and tugged off his shorts without unbuttoning them - they had been sitting a bit low on his waist, maybe it was time to get new pants. He pulled off his boxers, and sized Elio up. “I can work with that,” Seven said, and before Elio could come up with a witty retort, he’d taken Elio’s entire length in his mouth. Based on his skill level, Elio guessed that maybe he wasn’t as straight as he initially thought. Although Elio was still somewhat drunk, he came relatively quickly, moaning loudly.

Once his breath steadied, Elio returned the favor. He gripped Seven tightly, slowly, teasingly licking the tip. Seven looked at him longingly, and Elio eventually took as much as he could into his mouth. He soon pulled away, and crawled back toward the pillow, to Seven’s whines of disappointment. “What’d you stop for?” Seven asked.

“You talk too much,” Elio said, kissing him once more. While they kissed, he gripped Seven’s cock and began aggressively tugging. Elio kissed Seven’s neck, and began to suck, using his teeth slightly, while he kept jerking Seven. This was not at all how he pictured his evening going, but now, he was not going to stop until he’d fucked Seven. Once he’d properly destroyed Seven’s neck, he resumed his blowjob. He came suddenly and with a higher-pitched groan than Elio would have expected.

Seven seemed to relish the post-orgasmic kissing, which lasted long enough for Elio to get hard again. He was surprised by how much he needed this, how much he needed Juror Seven. At this moment, it occurred to Elio that they didn’t even know each other’s names, but this did not seem like the right time to find out.

“Do you have a condom?” Elio asked.

He reached over to the nightstand, and pulled out a pack of condoms and a bottle of lube. That answered Elio’s question once and for all about whether Seven was straight. “Are you… you know… have you been tested?” Seven asked.

The correct time to have asked this was before they came in each other’s mouths, but Elio, for once, held his tongue. “I’m clean. My last test was a few months ago. You?”

“Me too.”

Elio grabbed the lube and slicked up his fingers. Seven sat against the headboard and spread his legs for Elio. After prepping Seven, he rolled on the condom, grabbed his knees, and entered him. Once he’d bottomed out, he began thrusting aggressively, needing to dominate Seven, taking out the past three weeks of anger in every motion. He still couldn’t stand the guy, but rough sex was just what they needed.

Later, when Elio was on his back with his legs wrapped around Seven’s torso, he noticed Seven was taking things slower and more gentle. This was not what he signed up for this evening. “You Harvard men always need to have the last word, don’t you?” he teased, arching his hips up to change the angle to better accommodate Seven’s gargantuan appendage. With that, Seven began thrusting with more force.

When Seven finished and they’d cleaned themselves up, they laid on their backs, staring up at the ceiling. Elio looked at the time, and saw that it was 2 in the morning. They had to be in court in seven hours. He was too tired to get dressed and go home, so he’d deal with that in the morning.

“So, do you still hate my guts?” Seven asked him sleepily, as he began to play with Elio’s curls.

“Jury’s still out on that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That chapter turned out a lot longer than I was planning... oops.
> 
> Elio quotes _Ten Thousand Men of Harvard_ , one of Harvard's fight songs, that specifically references Yale (Eli Yale - Yale students are sometimes called Elis.) I just realized the Elio/Eli thing as I typed that. I'm glad I had him go to Yale in two of my fics now :)
> 
> Jury duty isn't usually nearly as bad as described in the fic, but, this is fiction. And they all needed a reason to go get drunk together.
> 
> Thank you for such a positive response to the first chapter! I hope you all enjoyed this one as much :D


	3. Part III

Oliver woke up with a splitting headache and the weight of another person’s head and arm on his chest. He turned his head, and noticed that Juror Eight was in his bed, lying on his side, and was very, very naked. Suddenly, the events of the previous evening came crashing back to him. He grabbed his phone and saw that it was 7:15. He’d still have time to shower, eat breakfast, and make it to court on time. Eight was still sound asleep, and Oliver figured he’d let him sleep a little longer. He looked peaceful, and if he was willing to admit it to himself, handsome, while he slept.

He went into his kitchen to grind some coffee beans and looked out the window. It was pouring, which meant it would take even longer to get downtown to the courthouse. Perfect. He assumed Eight would need the caffeine, too, so he measured enough beans for two. While the coffee slowly dripped into his Chemex, he took two aspirin and then took a quick shower.

Oliver replayed the previous evening over and over in his head, trying to understand how he wound up having a marathon hate-fucking session with Eight. Prior to last night, he wouldn’t have necessarily suspected that Eight even liked men (Oliver doubted that Eight liked _anyone_ , he seemed to hate everyone and everything), but he was willing to guess that he definitely had experience with men. The sex last night had been good - really good - and it made Oliver think about all of his previous interactions with Eight. Had they been flirting? Did they still hate each other? Oliver was thoroughly confused about the whole situation, but when he thought about the outstanding blow job Eight had given him right before they fell asleep, he got hard again. He closed his eyes, retracing the angles of Eight’s face, the dip of his hip, the way he pounded into Oliver, knowing exactly how to make him squirm in pleasure. Fuck. Oliver knew if he didn’t rub one out right now, he’d be unable to think about anything else all day.

After his shower, he wrapped a towel around his waist, grabbed the bottle of aspirin, and brought it into the bedroom with a cup of coffee and a glass of water for Eight, who was still asleep, and was now spooning Oliver’s pillow. It suddenly occurred to Oliver that this was the first time he’d slept with someone and didn’t know his name, but he didn’t know when the right time to ask for that morsel of information would be. He placed the coffee on a coaster on the nightstand, and began gently rubbing Eight’s back.

“Hey, wake up,” he whispered.

“Laisse-moi tranquille, maman, je dors,” Eight said, swatting him away. He played the piano perfectly, he went to Yale, he spoke Italian on the phone last week, and now he spoke French, too? Who the hell was this guy?

Oliver tried once more. He searched his brain for the French he took as an elective in college. “Réveillez-vous! C'est le matin.”

Eight began to stir, and turned around and looked at him. “Huh? What… why…” he slowly opened his eyes and stretched his arms over his head, coming to. When he sat up, he yelped in pain.

“I thought that would happen. I brought you some aspirin, and also some coffee,” Oliver said. He went into his closet and dug around for boxers and clothing.

“Your French is terrible, by the way,” Eight said, swallowing the aspirin and chasing it with the entire glass of water.

“How the fuck do you know so many languages? I heard you speaking Italian the other day...” Oliver asked, slipping his boxers on under his towel before dropping the towel to the floor.

“I ate your ass last night, I think we’re beyond modesty,” Eight noted, still sitting on the bed stark naked. Oliver hadn’t forgotten about that in the slightest, but the memory of the act sent all of the blood in his body to his dick once more. “To answer your question, my mom’s French, and I grew up in Italy.” He slowly began sipping his coffee.

Every new layer of Eight intrigued Oliver further. He went to the linen closet and threw a towel at Eight. “You might want to shower before court, given, you know…” Oliver pointed at the remnants of their drunken revelry across Eight’s chest and stomach.

“I’ll just go home and shower. What time is it?” Eight asked.

“About 7:45,” Oliver said.

“I guess I’ll shower here then.” Eight got out of bed and began collecting the items of clothing he’d hastily shed. He picked up his shirt and grimaced as he examined it. “Did we use my shirt as…” Oliver nodded before he could finish the question. “Fuck.”

Oliver went into his closet and intentionally grabbed the first Harvard shirt he could find to rile Eight just a little, one from a Hillel barbecue his junior year. “Here, you can wear this. Just give it back to me another day.”

Eight took the shirt and raised his eyebrow at Oliver. “Du farkirtst mir di yorn!” he said, taking the rest of his clothes and his towel toward the bathroom.

“Wait, you speak Yiddish, too?” Oliver asked, as he got dressed.

“No, not anything beyond random swear words and things like that. Whatever I heard my grandparents saying when I was a kid. What, I can’t be French and Italian AND Jewish? I mean, I’m cut, like you...”

“I just… was surprised, that’s all.” With his educational pedigree, and his Jewish background, Oliver realized that if he had met Eight on Tinder or JSwipe, or definitely Grindr, he’d have swiped right. Not after hearing him complain nonstop for three weeks, but on paper, he was great. “I left you a toothbrush in the bathroom - it’s one of the free ones you get from the dentist, but it’s still in the package.”

Oliver went over to his full length mirror and examined the purple bruise on his neck. It was too hot for a scarf or a turtleneck, so there’d be no covering that up today. He ran his finger over it, and the bruise stung a bit. He noticed Eight staring at what he was doing, and if he wasn’t mistaken, smirking, probably proud of his handiwork.

* * *

Elio didn’t know what was throbbing more, his head or his cock, but he took care of the latter while he showered quickly. The previous night with Seven had been quite surprising. Elio did not want to admit to himself how much he enjoyed it. Seven was being weirdly nice to him this morning, making him coffee and having aspirin at the ready. To be fair, he desperately needed the aspirin. But then he was back to his bullshit by giving him a Harvard shirt to wear. Elio wanted to wipe that smug little smile off of his face in that moment. Or maybe throw him against the bed once more and fuck him senseless.

After he showered and quickly got dressed, Elio went out into the kitchen, where Seven was putting some scrambled eggs and bacon on a plate for him. “You didn’t have to make me breakfast.”

“It wasn’t any extra effort, and I needed it myself. Do you not want it? I wouldn’t mind eating more bacon right now, anyway,” Seven said. He was wearing a polo shirt with the collar sloppily popped in an effort to hide the hickey Elio had given him the night before, to no avail.

“No, I definitely want it. Thanks,” Elio said, grabbing the plate and scarfing down the bacon first. “Fuck, this hangover is going to suck today.”

“At least we won’t be the only ones,” Seven said. He sat at a stool at the kitchen island, and Elio leaned against the counter, devouring his breakfast. “Do we… should we… talk about it? Last night?”

Elio shrugged, and took another sip of the second cup of coffee Seven poured for him. Much like he’d done in bed last night, it seemed Seven was able to predict exactly what Elio needed and wanted, at exactly the right time. “What’s there to talk about?” He assumed that they were on the same page, that it had been a strictly sexual encounter, and that it was a one-time thing. Sure, it might have been some of the best sex Elio’d ever had, but Seven was so grating that he wasn’t sure he was willing to put up with him again, no matter how good the orgasms were.

“Okay,” Seven said, almost in a sad tone of voice. “Well… we should probably head down to court.” Seven went into his closet and grabbed two umbrellas, handing one to Elio. “You’re probably going to need this.”

They took the subway in complete silence, and when they walked toward the courthouse, Elio joked, “Should we, like, stagger our entrances or something?”

“I don’t think anyone will notice or care if we walk in at the same time,” Seven added, completely seriously.

“Calm down, I was joking. Sheesh. You’ve got no sense of humor.”

Elio felt like a child in his father’s clothing, as Seven’s t-shirt was too large on him, but thankfully, no one noticed or cared. When they got to their seats, they resumed their charade of ignoring one another and occasionally making snide remarks.

The next day, when no one was looking, Seven handed Elio a plastic bag and said, “I washed your shirt for you. Any chance I’ll ever see mine back?”

“We’ll see,” Elio said, smirking, turning his attentions back to his book. He was never giving that shirt back.

During lunch, Elio decided to take a walk and try out the Vietnamese sandwich shop in the back of a jewelry store that he’d read about online. Elio shouldn’t have been surprised when the person ahead of him in line was Seven. “Fancy seeing you here,” Elio said.

“Oh, hey,” Seven said, picking his head up from his phone. Elio noticed a new picture on Seven’s lock screen, of the little girl whose picture and toys were everywhere in his apartment. They each placed their order and waited quietly near the counter.

“So, does your daughter know about the filthy things you do in bed,” he whispered.

Seven locked his phone and put it in his pocket. “Hey, shush,” he warned and looked around. “My daughter? I don’t have a kid. I’m not sure why you keep making these assumptions about me.”

“Who’s the cute kid on your lock screen?” Elio asked.

Seven smiled and opened his phone to show Elio a picture. “Oh, that’s Aria, she’s my niece. She’s three, and she’s my favorite person in the world.”

“So is that why I tripped over some toys the other night?”

“Banh mi ga nuong, number seventy-six,” the man behind the counter shouted. Elio walked up to grab his sandwich, and decided to wait for Seven before leaving the tiny shop.

“Yeah, I watched her the night before when my sister and brother-in-law went to see a show.” He opened a folder of pictures on his phone and scrolled through, showing Elio different pictures of his niece. If there was anything worse than people forcibly showing you pictures of their children, it was childless aunts and uncles pushing pictures of their nieces and nephews, but Elio suffered through. The kid did seem cute, and it was endearing that Seven loved her so much.

“Banh mi chay, number seventy-five,” the man shouted. Seven grabbed his sandwich, and they walked back to the courthouse together.

They sat on a park bench and nibbled on their sandwiches, while Seven told Elio some stories about his niece. “Could you believe she is one of five girls named Aria in her preschool class?”

“Let me guess, there are four girls named Khaleesi, too?” Elio mused.

“My brother-in-law wanted to name her that. Aria was a compromise. I think they’re going to regret the name, but at least it sounds pretty.”

Elio dabbed at his mouth with a napkin, and asked, “How’d you find this place? It’s unmarked and in the back of a jewelry store, you need to be in the know to find it.”

“Promise you won’t make fun of me?” Seven asked.

“I don’t think I can do that,” Elio said, laughing.

Seven swallowed a bite of food and took a swig of his soda. “Fine. I’ve been making my way through a list of the best lunch spots south of Houston street that I found on a food blog.”

“That’s what I’ve been doing, too, actually. I take it that’s how we wound up at the same dumpling shop.”

Before they knew it, they’d spent the whole hour chatting, and went back to court to hear yet more testimony for some of their tougher cases.

* * *

“You’re halfway done!” Oliver’s sister said over FaceTime.

Oliver stuck out his tongue. “I’ve still got three whole weeks left, though. I’m going to be really behind on my research this summer.”

“How’s that juror you hate? Is he giving you any more trouble?”

“Funny you should ask that…” he said, feeling his cheeks heat up.

Meredith raised her eyebrow and shouted, “I knew you liked him!”

“Just because I slept with someone doesn’t mean I like them!” Oliver said.

“Wait, you SLEPT with him? How did that happen?”

Oliver caught his sister up on what had happened during the week, and how they seemed to be in a truce now. He angled the phone at his neck to show his healing bruise. “I still don’t think I like him, though. I don’t know. Either way, I’m stuck sitting next to him for another three weeks.”

“If I’m being honest, he sounds kind of perfect for you. He can keep up with you, and he’ll always keep you on your toes,” she said, angling her phone on the table so she could use her hand to fix her hair.

“I didn’t say I wanted to date him. We just need to survive fifteen more days of close proximity to one another.”

* * *

Elio and Marzia went to a spinning class together on Saturday afternoon, and on their way back to their apartment, Marzia said, “So, how come you never came home on Wednesday night? Did you have a hot date you forgot to tell me about?”

He shook his head. “No… remember that guy from jury duty, the one that I hate?” Marzia nodded. “We split a cab back to the Upper West Side after some jurors went out drinking together, and we fought on the street, and then spent the night doing a lot more than that…”

“Elio!” she exclaimed, smacking him in the arm. “You waited a few days to tell me that? How was it?”

“I mean, I still don’t like him, but the sex… was really good. It was rough, and fiery, and sort of exactly what I needed. I haven’t stopped thinking about it.” Elio wiped some residual sweat from the gym class off of his forehead.

“You liiiiiiiike him,” Marzia taunted.

“No I don’t. You can have great sex with someone that you strongly dislike,” he said defensively.

“Sure thing,” Marzia said, sarcastically nodding her head.

* * *

Oliver was surprised that he was not dreading going to court on Monday. He woke up early enough to go for a run, he shaved the scruff he’d been growing for the past few days, and even ironed his shirt. He wasn’t trying to impress anyone, but why not try to look nice, even if he was still casually dressed?

Eight walked in, and for the first time since jury duty started, appeared to be wearing pants that fit him. This was a new look, and Oliver didn’t mind. When he sat down, Oliver could smell perfumed soap, or maybe cologne. He smelled good, but he tried to ignore it.

During their mid-morning break, Oliver took out his iPad to watch one of the episodes of _Star Trek: The Original Series_ that he’d downloaded. He put his earbuds in, and suddenly felt a tap on his shoulder.

“Are you watching _Star Trek_?” Eight asked him.

Oliver blushed, and locked his iPad, closing his case. “I was. Do you have a problem with that?”

“No,” Eight said. “I haven’t seen this show in forever.”

“I didn’t take you for a Trekkie,” Oliver said, taking his earbud out.

Eight shook his head. “I’m not, not really. But I used to watch it with my Dad when I was a kid. He had the whole series on tape, and we’d watch it on rainy summer nights at our villa in Italy.”

As Eight sat on his left, he offered him the right earbud. “Want to watch?” He took the earbud and popped it into his right ear. Thus began their tradition of watching _Star Trek_ together during their shorter breaks.

Each day, neither Oliver nor Eight noticed that their bodies kept angling slightly closer to one another, their knees almost touching as they each held a corner of the iPad.

* * *

Elio was surprised how much he was enjoying watching _Star Trek_ with Seven. Each break between cases, they picked up where they had left off, and they were able to make it through about three episodes a day. At this rate, they’d watch the entire series by the time jury duty was over.

On Wednesday, Elio took out his phone and began looking for a place to eat lunch. “Hey, have you been to this falafel place?” he asked Seven.

“I haven’t. Were you going there for lunch?” he asked.

“I was thinking about it. Falafel and shawarma sound really good right now,” Elio pointed out.

Seven threw his iPad into his messenger bag (which he’d been using in lieu of the briefcase for the past few days), and asked, “Mind if I tag along?”

Elio suddenly didn’t mind jury duty as much. He and Seven, in addition to watching episodes together, began trekking around Lower Manhattan each afternoon in search of the city’s best lunch offerings. It turned out that they had pretty similar taste in food and pop culture. They would talk about politics, their families, Seven’s job (though he never actually said where he taught, and after a while, Elio felt weird asking about it) and Elio’s worry that he wouldn’t find a job after he graduated next year.

“I think if you play the piano half as good sober as you did when you were drunk, you’ll be swimming in job offers and performance opportunities,” Seven said. “I mean, you played _Moonlight Sonata_ by heart, while inebriated.”

“You knew what I was playing?” Elio asked. He was somewhat surprised that Seven was familiar with this sort of music.

“Of course I know Beethoven,” Seven retorted. “My bubbe used to listen to the classical music station all the time when she’d babysit us when we were kids.”

By the next Friday, Elio was actually sad that they only had one more week of jury duty left. Obviously he couldn’t wait to fly home to visit his parents for a few weeks, but he had actually grown to enjoy the time he was spending with Seven. When they were walking back from a fried chicken restaurant during a long lunch break, Seven did a double take when he saw someone pass them on the street.

“Sasha? What are you doing down here?” he said, stopping in his tracks. The man turned around and walked over to them, giving Seven a kiss on the cheek.

“Oh, hi!” the man said. He was tall, though not as tall as Seven, and lean, with light brown hair. Elio could tell his biceps were bulging, even under his suit jacket. “I started a new job, I work near Wall Street now. What are you doing south of 96th Street?” The man had a slight Russian accent.

“Remember when I had to fill out that jury duty survey a few months ago? Guess who is stuck with grand jury duty for most of the summer.”

“Oh no! That sounds awful!” The man put his hand on Seven’s arm and gently touched his hand. “It’s funny that we ran into each other, I’ve been meaning to call you…”

Elio suddenly began filling with rage. He didn’t know this Sasha, but he certainly didn’t like him, with his muscular physique and icy blue eyes, and the intimate way he seemed to know Seven. He stormed off back toward the courthouse. When he got to their floor, he sat in a seat near the vending machines, trying to calm down. Why was he so angry?

A few minutes later, Seven walked out of the elevator and sat down next to Elio. “Why’d you run off like that?”

“Was that your boyfriend?” Elio asked, looking down at his fingers, picking idly at his cuticle.

“Sasha? No, he’s my ex. Very firmly ex. We broke up a couple of months ago. It just wasn’t working,” Seven said.

“He’s handsome. You two seemed pretty cozy,” Elio said, still looking down.

Seven started laughing. “Are you jealous?”

“What? No, of course not,” Elio said, too quickly to actually mean it.

“I mean, because you and I, we’re not… I mean, we did, but we’re not… are we?”

Elio shook his head, and folded his hands in his lap. “No, we’re not…” He stood up, took out his wallet, and decided to buy himself a soda. When the machine wouldn’t take his dollar, Seven took a dollar out of his own wallet and fed it to the machine. “Thanks,” Elio said softly, grabbing the bottle and heading back into the courtroom.

* * *

It was finally the last week of jury duty. While Oliver was glad he would be done listening to case after case, he realized he was going to miss the time he was spending with Eight. He’d gained a companion, someone to complain with and chat about anything and everything with. He couldn’t believe that a few weeks ago, they’d despised each other, because Oliver was now quite fond of him. Even if he still didn’t know his damned name. Maybe they’d all said their names on the first day, and he’d forgotten it? Either way, it was too late to start asking.

He stopped at a food cart and grabbed a bacon egg and cheese for himself, and decided to buy a second for Eight. On Mondays, he usually trudged into the courtroom a few minutes late, looking disheveled and exhausted. Oliver assumed he wouldn’t have had breakfast and would appreciate the sandwich.

Just as expected, Eight entered the courtroom fifteen minutes late, sweating and hair in disarray. When he sat down, Oliver handed him the wrapped sandwich and a cup of coffee. “Figured you’d need it today.”

“Thanks,” Eight said, unwrapping the sandwich, wolfing down the first half in no time.

Oliver had stopped bringing his school books and his laptop with him to court, as he hadn’t actually touched them in the courthouse over the past few weeks. He was spending every free minute with Eight, watching videos on his iPad, chatting about anything and everything, scouring around for food and coffee. It pained him to think it, but they complemented each other well. They had one heated and passionate night together, but did he want more? Or was he just experiencing a form of Stockholm Syndrome, and enjoyed his company given the circumstances of being stuck together for six weeks? He’d finally admitted to himself that he found Eight attractive, and their one night together had been great, but who meets someone during jury duty?

* * *

During their walk back to court on Thursday, Seven asked Elio what his plans were for the rest of the summer now that they were free after tomorrow.

“I fly to Italy on Monday, and I’m there until a few days before Labor Day. I haven’t seen my parents since the winter, and it’ll be nice to go back home. What about you?”

“Catching up on the research and syllabus-writing that I’ve been neglecting these past few weeks,” Seven said. “I haven’t booked anything, but maybe I’ll try to go on a short vacation before school starts up.”

It was blisteringly hot, so they decided to stop at Chinatown Ice Cream Factory on the way back. Elio ordered a peach sorbet, and he ordered a mint chocolate chip for Seven.

“How’d you know this was my favorite flavor?” he asked.

“You said it once,” Elio shrugged. He handed him the ice cream and their thumbs quickly brushed each other. Elio desperately wanted the touch to linger, but Seven took the cone and began licking at the ice cream.

Since their night together, Elio kept thinking about it. He wasn’t normally Elio’s type, but Seven was smart as a whip, and was surprisingly funny. He was older, but not that much older, maybe five or six years? They could talk about anything for hours. And the sex… Elio wondered if the sex would be as good the second time around, now that they didn’t actively hate one another.

They walked quietly, happily eating their ice cream, when Elio stopped short. “Come to Italy with me,” he said.

“What?” Seven said, nearly dropping his ice cream cone. “You want me to go to Italy with you?”

“Is it that crazy? You want to go on a vacation. We’ve spent all of our time together the past few weeks. I like you, and I think you like me, too.”

“We barely even know each other! I can’t just fly to Italy with someone I don’t know,” Seven said, looking exasperated.

Elio furrowed his brow. “I do know you, and you know me. I know that you love your niece so much that she’s both the lock screen and the background of your phone. You call your mom all the time, and text with her even more often. You run three miles a day, more on weekends. Baseball is your favorite sport, but you also like watching European soccer. The summer before you went to graduate school, you volunteered for the Obama campaign. You always like being in the know, but more than that, you like doing what is right, which is why you take meticulous notes during the most boring of cases, and encourage us to discuss before every vote in case we’re indicting someone who could be innocent. And I know that you put on these airs of bravado and gruff masculinity, but you take care of others’ needs before your own, in life and especially in the bedroom, and all you really want is for someone to take care of you. I can do that for you. I want to be there for you.”

Seven stammered, and Elio took a step backward, giving him some space. “I… I need some time to think…,” he said, and they resumed their walk in silence. Elio spent the rest of the day longingly staring at Seven, who seemed sad and lost in thought. What had Elio done? He’d ruined a good thing. He regretted telling Seven how he felt, but it was out in the open now.

* * *

Oliver spent the night looking up flights to Milan. This was crazy, right? He wasn’t going to go on vacation with someone he’d met six weeks ago. To his parents’ house. On another continent. He never did anything impulsively. But the flights weren’t that expensive, all things considered. Oliver opened up Google Maps and began looking at Crema through street view. It looked beautiful, and like the sort of relaxing vacation destination he was looking for.

He grabbed a beer from his fridge and sat on the couch, attempting to watch some television, but was lost in thought. Screw it, he was going to book the flight. He could always just get a hotel in Milan, or take the train and go exploring. He was never one to travel without a specific itinerary, but there was no time like the present to start.

When he woke up the next morning, he was nervous. He got to court early, in hopes of talking to Eight before they wrapped up their last cases. Eight sat down to Oliver’s left just as the ADA walked into the room, and gave Oliver a half smile. The session began immediately, and they had no time to talk.

Eight had run out of the room immediately during their first break of the morning. Oliver tried to follow him, but Eight was sitting in a corner, FaceTiming someone (presumably his mother?) in French. Oliver waved at him, and Eight waved back, but continued on his phone.

Finally, it was their lunch break. “Are we doing lunch today?” Oliver asked him.

“Guess so,” Eight said, as they walked out of the room. They took the elevator out of the building and began walking. Eight took off his hoodie, and Oliver noticed that he was wearing his Harvard shirt. That was a really good sign. The shirt was too big on him, but there was something incredibly sexy about seeing him wearing his tattered old shirt. “What do you have in mind?”

“What about pizza? I think I’ll need to hear how our slices compare to the pizza I’ll be having with you in Italy,” Oliver said with a smirk.

“Wait, what? Really?” Eight said, his eyes lighting up.

Oliver nodded. “I booked round trip flights to Milan last night. I booked a week, I leave a week from today.”

Before he even finished his sentence, Eight pushed Oliver against the wall of the building they were standing in front of, got on his toes, and kissed him. Oliver wrapped his arms around Eight’s waist, gently rubbing his lower back. Kissing Eight felt right, even if this time, they weren’t trying to kill each other. The anger that had fueled their first interaction had been replaced by passion.

* * *

Elio took the subway to Seven’s apartment after they were dismissed from jury duty, to ostensibly talk about their plans for Italy and give him all of the information he would need for getting to the villa and getting around the town. Instead, they very quickly shed their clothing and jumped into Seven’s bed. This time, Elio made sure not to trip on any children’s toys.

The kissing, the touching, the sex, everything was even better this time than it was the first time. Every caress sent shivers down Elio’s spine. As Elio expected, Seven was a very generous lover, and insisted on meeting Elio’s carnal needs before satisfying his own. Seven was so sexy, and Elio couldn’t believe he’d spent most of the summer despising this man for whom he had now fallen so deeply.

After the third round, they each laid on their sides, facing one another, smiling happily. They were kissing softly, when Elio pulled away slowly, realizing there was still one thing left to do. “By the way, I’m Elio.”

Seven laughed heartily, and ran his finger over Elio’s chin. “I’m Oliver.”

* * *

_**Epilogue** _

 

_From the Courtroom, to Courting, to Courthouse Wedding_

_**New York Times**_ _Vows Section_ , October 16, 2021

When Oliver Silverstein, now 34, received his Grand Jury Duty summons, he was dreading spending his summer in the courtroom. He was assigned as Juror Number Seven, with a six week term in June of 2019. He and Juror Number Eight, Elio Perlman, now 29, quickly grew to despise one another. “He was always taking notes, determined to remember every miniscule detail. But it was how cavalier and friendly he was with everyone that drew my initial ire,” Mr. Perlman said of the Columbia University philosophy professor.

“We despised each other at first,” Dr. Silverstein said. “It seemed he was always looking for new and subtle ways to get under my skin. Turns out, he was just flirting with me.” What started as a mutual enmity slowly blossomed into a friendship, and soon, a romance. After their six weeks of jury duty, Dr. Silverstein flew halfway across the world, to Crema, Italy, to spend a week with Mr. Perlman and his family.

“That was when I knew I’d met the man I was going to marry," Mr. Perlman cooed.

Following his graduation from Columbia with a Masters Degree in Music, Mr. Perlman, now the pianist with the New York City Ballet Orchestra, had purchased an apartment with Dr. Silverstein in the Harvard graduate’s current building. “We only lived five blocks apart, but even that distance felt too much. After Italy, I knew I’d found my soulmate, but Oliver is pragmatic and an itinerant planner, and he wouldn’t let me move in until I’d found a job.”

“What he doesn’t know is that I was waiting to see what city, or country, he’d be in. I would have followed him anywhere in the world, but once he was hired by the Ballet, we purchased a larger unit in my building,” Dr. Silverstein whispered, when Mr. Perlman was just out of earshot. "I had a good feeling about him, but I knew he was the one when I took him to my family's Labor Day barbecue, and my niece immediately loved him even more than she loves me. He was so good with her."

Elio, the son of Dr. Samuel, a professor at the Polytechnic University of Milan, and Annella Perlman, a translator, proposed to Oliver, son of Stuart and Lenore Silverstein, both accountants, during the winter holidays of 2020. He had silver rings garnished with a small pearl made for each of them. “I know it was cheesy, but my last name is Perlman and his is Silverstein, so I felt inspired…” Mr. Perlman said.

The grooms had a courthouse ceremony, in the very same building where they first met. They were married by both a judge and Dr. Silverstein’s childhood rabbi. The flower girl was Dr. Silverstein’s five-year-old niece, Aria, and their wedding party included Dr. Silverstein’s sister, Meredith Silverstein-Rosenbloom, his brother-in-law, Mike Rosenbloom, and Mr. Perlman’s two best friends from his undergraduate years at Yale, Marzia Colombo and Chiara Schmidt. Each groom was escorted down the aisle by both of his parents.

Their wedding reception was at the Hog Saloon in Hell’s Kitchen, a dive bar of significant importance to the couple. “This was our first wedding party, but I think I’ve stumbled onto a new business model,” joked the owner, John “Shovelhead” Davis, a burly, tattooed man who befriended the couple while he also served on the same Grand Jury. “In all seriousness, I was honored that Oliver and Elio wanted to host their wedding here.”

The grooms will be honeymooning in France over the winter holidays. They will be taking each other’s names.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap on _Hung Jury_!
> 
> The Yiddish that Elio mutters basically means "you're going to be the death of me".
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed this silly little story. Thank you for following along and reading!

**Author's Note:**

> This story is going to be short and sweet. It was going to be a one-off, but I thought it lent itself better into a few short parts. I think it's going to be three chapters, but I'll update if it winds up being more.
> 
> If you ever want to reach out or chat, feel free to find me on [tumblr](http://noodlekugel.tumblr.com) (I'm noodlekugel on there).


End file.
